Hanging from the edge of a cliff for the third time in three months, Sulu is starting to think maybe he's due for a vacation.
He counts backwards from one hundred as Spock examines the distance between him and the floor a thousand feet below, does some arcane calculation of the tension of the rope. In as many days he's been randomly run over, kidnapped, shot at, and just insulted in a language only Uhura speaks. He's not counting all the times Kirk might have maybe told Sulu to take the ship a little faster than it should technically go and splintered something in the engines, for which he blames Kirk, because, strictly speaking, it wasn't his idea. He's also not counting all the times he almost got murdered by Bones for bringing Chekov home singing in Latvian (who the hell knew he spoke Latvian?) or by Uhura for letting Kirk take Spock out on his motorcycle. He's refusing to even think about the Andorian space plague or whatever it was that gave them all buboes the size of quarters.
"Mr. Sulu, I can tell you that there is at least a seventy-five point six percent chance of rescue," Spock calls down to him. "Do not be overly alarmed. A moderate level of alarm is all that is called for."
Other ships don't have this problem. He's been reliably informed. On other ships, the ability to split a man sideways with a katana and/or standard saber is not a talent you have to call in very often. On other ships, the helmsman stays on the ship to drive it.
Glancing up he can see that Kirk has decided to strap on a harness and rappel down, which is a great plan and totally not one that will end up with them both hanging from a cliff. Kirk stretches out a hand, loses his balance, drops twenty feet with a strangled oath and ends up hanging from one strap from a tree right above Sulu's head.
He's definitely due for a vacation. Maybe he'll take a nice, relaxing tour of combat duty.
"There is a sixty-four point seven nine chance of rescue now," says Spock, and goes to get the grappling hook.